Third Degree

  “Heart surgeon,” I say, reaching for a container of light yogurt.

  “No shit?” She leads the way and chooses a nearly empty table for us. I’m grateful for a break from being pleasant with her cheerleader friends. It’s an exhausting task, because even though they’re nice and have a broad range of interests, they tend to fit into the normal and socially able category better than even the kids on my floor I hung out with on Saturday. Which makes them even more challenging for me to relate to. “You know, that explains a lot about you. Maybe even more so than the home-schooling.”

  I laugh but steer the conversation to a new topic. I’m beginning not only to tolerate Kelsey but to like her as well, and I feel guilty lying all the time. I think coming clean to her about the rest of my life story wouldn’t be too much of a risk. I might do that soon. Maybe.

  On the way back to the dorm, we spot a truck pulling up in front. A guy jumps out carting a vase holding at least two dozen lavender roses.

  “Don’t tell me that’s for you, too,” Kelsey says. “Our room is going to smell like a fucking bottle of perfume threw up all over the carpet.” Kelsey walks up to the guy, peeks at the card, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “It says ‘Happy birthday, Isabel.’ ”

  “That you?” the guy asks me.

  I nod and take the vase from his hand. While we’re trudging up the steps I pluck the card out of the envelope.

  Isabel,

  Nineteen is anticlimactic compared to eighteen, isn’t it? Especially for you. Your dad told me where I could send these flowers, and I have to say, I’m shocked at your choice of academic institution. But I know you and I’m sure you have some big plans up your sleeve. I miss seeing you around campus, I miss seeing you occupying the extra chair in my office. I still remember last year’s celebration.…

  Hope you’re having a great birthday.

  Love,

  Sam

  My heart is beating a little faster, my stomach doing that knotting and flipping thing again like it did the other day when I thought about Sam. Or should I say Professor Townsend? And he’s right. Last year, my birthday was probably the most anticipated day of my life up to that point. It meant I could finally practice medicine. Could finally start my internship. I celebrated in Sam’s office with a bottle of wine, very little clothing, and more than one orgasm.

  And then I dropped him. Just like that. I put my clothes back on and made myself presentable for a birthday dinner with my parents. I kissed him. Then, with my hand already on the doorknob, I said something about how I’d probably be too busy with the internship to see him anymore.

  Sam didn’t make a single effort to change my mind. He just smiled and said, “It’s okay. New semester, new TA.”

  Just thinking about it now brings on that punched-in-the-gut feeling I’ve experienced many times over the last several weeks, but did I feel it then? I don’t think I let myself. Maybe I was too preoccupied with the task of breaking things off with him. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping he’d beg me not to. And in truth, I don’t even know if he meant it like that. Maybe he simply meant that he’d have new help available.

  “Uh-oh,” Kelsey says as we reach our floor. “You’ve got that haunted-by-an-ex look.”

  “Yeah.” I blow air out of my cheeks and stuff the card back in the holder. “Pretty much.”

  Marshall chooses that moment to emerge from the bathroom, and at the same time Yoshi steps out of his room, spotting me and lifting his eyebrows like he’d been waiting for us to come back.

  Kelsey snatches the flowers from my hands and heads for our room. “I’ll find a spot for these.”

  “Hey, Izzy,” Yoshi says, his cheeks burning bright red even though he’s already apologized seventeen times for getting handsy with me on Saturday. He said he regretted that, and he also regretted drinking so much, since he spent most of Sunday hungover. As did Fahima, Lacey, and Evan.

  “I already told you, I’m totally fine with everything,” I say quickly, hoping to escape more uncomfortable apologies. I’ve found them to be very similar to the thank-you moments I dread so much. Maybe that was what attracted me to a guy like Justin—he’d never say thank you or apologize for anything.

  “Yeah, I know.” He glances over my shoulder and then lowers his voice. Marshall is behind us still. He must be. I haven’t heard footsteps or a door closing. “I saw your room and all the birthday stuff. I thought maybe … maybe we could go out tonight. Like for dinner? You know, since fall break starts on Thursday, I figured we’d all be home this weekend …”

  Even though Kelsey took those flowers from me, the weight of Sam’s card still sits heavy in my arms, and the weight of Marshall’s eyes and ears behind me adds to it. And now I’ve got to think about the fact that fall break starts soon and I’ll be facing my dad’s new condo. I lean against the wall and take in a slow, calming breath. I need to do this. This is normal.

  “Like a date?” I ask, just to be sure I understand what I’m getting into. Yoshi nods, and then I add, “Yeah, okay, sure.”

  I dive inside my room before I have to face Marshall or any more conversation from Yoshi. I flop onto my bed and close my eyes. “It’s my birthday. That means I get to cut class and sleep all day, right?”

  “Maybe you do,” Kelsey says. “But I don’t have a heart surgeon father supporting me, and if I don’t get my ass to class every day and pull off a B+ average I’m basically screwed.”

  I sit up quickly, realizing Marshall was right in telling me on more than one occasion that I really need to get to know Kelsey. “I’m completely free all day. Need help with anything?”

  She’s bent over, digging through her backpack, but she lifts her head after hearing my question. “Are you any good at calculus?”

  I grin. “As a matter of fact, I’m awesome at calculus.”

  Chapter 15

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: Common cause of urinary tract infections—not peeing after sex. So ladies, what are you waiting for? #JustPee #SexThenGo

  “He really didn’t make a single move? Not even a goodnight kiss?” Kelsey asks for the twenty-fourth time since Monday night.

  It’s Wednesday afternoon, which basically means that most people are heading off campus for the start of fall break, which lasts until Sunday night. My dad is looking forward to me seeing his new place. I’m the opposite of looking forward to it. Both Kelsey and I have suitcases open on our beds and have made progress in filling them over the last thirty minutes.

  “I already told you, nothing. I think he’s trying to prove that he’s not a creep. Or else he’s not into me like that.”

  She drops the shirt she’s been folding into her suitcase and turns around to face me. “The real question is, are you into him?”

  I shrug. “I’m experimenting.” Or maybe experiencing is the better word choice.

  She stays quiet for several more minutes, but after she’s got her suitcase zipped, shoes and coat on, and bus ticket in hand, she stands at the door, giving me that psychoanalytical look again. “You know you’re not really mad at him.”

  “Who? Yoshi?”

  Kelsey rolls her eyes. “No, not Yoshi. The other boy next door.”

  There is some truth to that. I don’t really feel pissed off at Marshall anymore because he has just as much right to be confused about us as I do. I’m not saying I agree with all of his choices, but I’ve done some terrible things on impulse, too.

  “He’s still here,” she points out. “I saw him coming out of the bathroom a few minutes ago. He looked sad.”

  I snort back a laugh. “He did not look sad.” And the walk between the bathroom and his room is about the only place I’ve seen Marshall over the past few days. He even missed boot camp fitness this morning, though Holloway didn’t say anything about it, so I’m assuming he knew Marshall would be absent. He might have had a conflicting midterm or a meeting with his advisor about classes next semester. I know Kelsey had hers a couple of hours ago.

  “He really did lo
ok sad,” she says. “Or tired, maybe. Either way, you guys are acting like first graders. Grow a pair, go knock on his door, apologize, tell him you want to be friends again, and then head home and have a much less stressful break.”

  Right. Because being faced with my parents’ separation—both emotional and physical—is the perfect medicine for stress relief.

  “I’ll think about it.” I sigh and sit down on my bed, trying to decide how long I’m going to stall before I head home. Minutes after Kelsey’s departure, my phone rings. I zip my suitcase and stand it upright before answering, “Hey, Dad.”

  “What time do you think you’ll be in town?” I can hear the familiar sounds of the hospital hallways in the background.

  “I’m wheeling my stuff out the door right now.” Okay, so I wasn’t in a hurry before, but I am now. “And my car is already parked in the circle drive.”

  “Great!” he says, “I’ve got a heart on its way from Houston for my eight-year-old endstage heart failure patient. You want to scrub in?”

  That’s what I call motivation—and bribery. But who gives a shit as long as there are failing hearts and surgeries involved?

  “Seriously? How did you get him moved up on the list? Last I heard, he was months from getting a heart.” I’m already going through the motions of shutting off the lights and locking the door. “Never mind. I’ll read his chart when I get there. What’s the ETA on the heart?”

  “About three hours,” Dad says, “We’re prepping him now.”

  “Perfect. I should make it in plenty of time. Save me a good spot, okay? And by that I mean a better spot than Justin or any of his fledglings.”

  Dad laughs. “Of course. Only the best for my little girl, right?”

  Suddenly I’m high on transplant surgery possibilities. I feel like a gambling addict finally allowed back in the casino following weeks of rehab. I head down the hall toward the elevator, but stop in front of Marshall’s door. I’m staring at the cheap wooden surface, trying to get it to tell me what to do, when it swings open and he’s standing in front of me, wearing only a pair of blue checkered boxers. His arm reaches out to grip the door frame. From under it, I can see into his room. It’s dark and messy, the scent of unwashed laundry and lack of fresh air wafting into the hallway.

  Marshall’s hair is matted down on one side and sticking up on the other. Creases from his pillow are imprinted across his left cheek.

  Is he hung over again? Seriously? On a Wednesday afternoon? Instead of asking that, I say, “Aren’t you going home?”

  His knuckles whiten like he’s being forced to grip the frame harder for support. “No, I’ve got too much studying to do with midterms and all that. It’s noisy at my house. What about you? Looks like you’re headed out. Any plans?”

  “My dad’s doing this risky transplant on an eight-year-old boy in a few hours, so I’m going to scrub in.” I’m still taking in every detail of his appearance. I can’t help it. “Okay, well, I just wanted to say, you know, that I’m sorr—”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead wrinkling and tension filling every bit of his face. My apology fizzles out, the doctor brain taking over. “Are you hungover again?”

  Marshall shakes his head. “I think it’s that flu thing going around.”

  “What flu thing?” But I’m talking to his back because he’s stepped around me and lunged for the bathroom door. I don’t hear the sounds of vomiting, so I immediately shift my diagnosis to a lower intestinal virus. I check the time on my cell phone and decide I can spare a few minutes to get the guy some electrolyte solutions to help his dehydration. I flip the light on in his room and roll my suitcase inside, resting it beside the desk. The room looks even more of a disaster than it did in the near dark.

  Hard to believe his living space has gotten this out of hand in only a few days. But really, it’s none of my business if Marshall wants to party more than clean. It’s none of my business if he’s hungover from alcohol or pot. I think he’s an idiot for making himself miserable, but whatever. We’re all idiots sometimes. Even geniuses.

  After spotting a nearly full twenty-ounce bottle of Gatorade on the floor beside the bed, I fling open the fridge to see what supplies he’s got already. Maybe he doesn’t need my help.

  The only item in his minifridge is a pink box that I recognize immediately. I reach for it and quickly count the injections left, my brain already spinning with theories. With the box still in my hand, I stand up and close the fridge with my shoe, glancing around for more hiding spots.

  My gaze lands on the top dresser drawer where he stashed the weed the other day. I haven’t heard a toilet flush yet, so I jump into action, sifting around in the drawer, moving boxers, socks, mismatched condoms that I recognize from the free handouts during orientation. Finally, I uncover four different prescription bottles. I lift one bottle at a time, taking in each name. Flagyl, Ciproxin—antibiotics. Prednisone—a steroid (so he wasn’t completely lying about the ’roid use). And Vicodin—a narcotic pain med. I shake the bottles, examining the weight. They all appear to be completely full, no pills missing.

  There’s a weird tightness forming in my chest as I put the many puzzle pieces together. The toilet flushes, water runs in the sink, and then Marshall is stumbling back into the room, squinting at the bright light. I’m still standing in front of his open drawer, the box of biological injections clutched in one hand.

  He takes his time getting back onto the bed, pain filling his expression with each shift in movement. When he’s stretched out, the covers over his legs, I finally open my mouth to speak. “You need IV fluids.”

  Marshall lifts his head a bit, takes in the box in my hand, and then lies back again. “You looked through my fridge? I thought we already talked about this invasion-of-privacy problem of yours.”

  His lips are dry and cracked, the skin under his eyes sunken. Even the skin on his arms looks dry. “You’re dehydrated.”

  “That happens when you make eighteen or thirty trips to the bathroom in one day,” he mumbles, closing his eyes.

  “Is it eighteen or thirty?” I ask, trying to get a grasp on the severity of his current flare-up.

  He groans and tosses and arm over his face to cover his eyes. “Go home, Izzy.”

  I return the box to the fridge, and I’m surprised by the shake in my hands. I do walk out of the room, but it’s only to retrieve my stethoscope and ear thermometer from the first-aid kit under my bed.

  “You left your suitcase,” he says when I return. “And the light is still on.”

  “That’s because I’m not leaving yet.” I have to shove a bunch of dirty laundry and books onto the floor before I can sit on Marshall’s bed. He uncovers his face long enough to see the stethoscope around my neck. His eyes widen.

  “This relationship is reaching a level of weirdness that I’m seriously not comfortable with.”

  I place the buds into my ears and press the base against his stomach. “I just want to listen to your bowel sounds.”

  “I take that back. Now we’ve reached the peak level of weirdness.” He’s using what little strength he has left to attempt this argument with me, but I can see him fading fast. I touch two fingers to his lips to quiet him and focus on the sounds his intestines make. After I’ve heard all that I need to, I take note of the fact that his lips are extremely hot. He tries to swat away the thermometer, but I win again.

  His temperature is 102.4 degrees.

  My hands are still shaking when I set the thermometer onto the bed and press my fingers against his abdomen. Marshall winces, and what little color he has left drains from his face. I fight the urge to yank my hands back, knowing I’m causing him pain. I slide my fingers lower, gently pressing all the way across, not even needing to ask him if this hurts—the answer’s written all over his face. Something beneath the dark hair around his belly button catches my eye. I lean closer to examine it and immediately suck in a breath. “You’ve had surgery.”

  “Surgeries,
” he corrects.

  “How many?” I reach for the waistband of his boxers and fold it over. There should be another scar right—

  “Stop it!” Marshall shoves my hands away and pulls the covers up to his chest before rolling onto his side, his back to me.

  “What’s your pain level? One to ten.” I shake out my arms, trying to rid them of the trembling. I feel like I’m coming down with Marshall’s imaginary flu myself.

  “Seriously, Izzy, go home.”

  “Give me a damn number or I’ll … I’ll—”

  He rolls onto his back again and looks at me. “Or what? What the hell are you going to do with that information?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. Then I stand up and start pacing his room. What am I trying to do here? What’s the plan? What’s the recommended course of treatment? I’ve scrubbed in on eleven surgeries with the attending gastrointestinal doctor at the hospital, and six of those were patients with Crohn’s disease. His symptoms aren’t new to me, nor are any of his meds, so why didn’t I see this before? “Why didn’t you tell me? Kelsey even mentioned that you lost weight last year.…”

  His back is to me again, but I hear him laugh. “Right. ’Cause skilled flirting typically includes mention of frequent diarrhea and surgeries to remove diseased sections of the large intestine.”

  I grab a small notebook and pen from the front of my suitcase and flip it open to an empty page. “Can you just give me a basic outline of your medical history? If I have that information, maybe I can help make a—”

  “A what?” he demands. “A diagnosis? I’ve been diagnosed.”

  I’m busy jotting down all the information I have thus far, organizing it in the same structure as a medical chart. “At what age did your symptoms first begin?”

  Marshall sighs, tosses back the covers, and plants his feet on the floor. I assume he’s about to make another trip to the bathroom. Instead he stands up and grips my arm, pulling me toward the door, his other hand reaching for my suitcase.